


Twisters

by cassieking13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieking13/pseuds/cassieking13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John needs to get himself and his sister away from their abusive dad.<br/>Luckily there's a twister on the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twisters

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Carrie Underwood's "Blown Away". Thought up in math class (which explains the "C").

He had another bruise. He did his best to hide the pain, to smile through it like he always did but I could tell immediately. I can always tell.   
“You can’t keep letting him hit you, you need to leave!” My voice edges on panicked but I can’t care less, not if John’s in pain.   
“And leave Harry to him? I don’t think so, Sherlock. He’d kill her if I wasn’t there and we both know it.”  
Of course I knew it. She looked exactly like her mother, long red hair, heart shaped face, the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen. And John’s father hated her for it. An angry drunk with a habit at swinging at anything that dares to move around his house and unless John’s there to stop it, it’s usually the too excitable Harry.   
I resign myself to worrying about the extent of his injuries.  
“How bad is it this time?”  
“Just a cracked rib. Worse for Harry. Broken arm. He took her to the hospital, told them she fell off the porch.” There’s a look in his eyes, the one I’ve seen so many times before, but only when he talks about his dad. Hatred, pure, unbridled hatred of a man who makes his life living hell.   
Silently, I twine our fingers together and squeeze. He gives me a weak half smile before pulling me towards the school. “Come on, we’ll be late.”  
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>  
He’s blacked out when I get there, drunk on the couch and completely comatose. I try to wake him up, I really do, but he won’t.  
The windows are shattering, a cacophony of breaking glass backgrounded by the howl of the wind and pound of the rain on the roof. I can hear Harry screaming for me from the cellar, yelling for me to hurry up. It’s almost on us and I can’t get the fat bastard to wake up. Finally, I make a decision. I grab the shoe box of pictures and scrapbooks from under my bed and I join Harry in the cellar.  
We spend the night listening to the screaming wind and looking through the scrapbooks. Harry cries but I know we’re safe. When the twisters over and the local police come to check on us, they write him up as dead of natural causes. Sheriff Lestrade has known me all my life and he’s seen enough of my bruises to put two and two together. Nobody questions it when Harry and I move in with Sherlock’s family for the final month of my senior year. We moved to London then, me, Harry, and Sherlock. I became a doctor and a part-time writer and Harry followed in my footsteps, writing horror and mystery novels. Sherlock, genius he is, became the world’s only consulting detective.   
I still love every storm that passes through our little flat.


End file.
